


Guide Us to the Light

by shadownashira



Series: Righteous Soul [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, BAMF John, Case Fic, Crossover, Friendship, Gen, Pagan Gods, Post The Great Game, Post-Episode: s05e22 Swan Song, Secrets, Sherlock Makes Deductions
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-11
Updated: 2013-12-31
Packaged: 2018-01-04 08:42:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,536
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1078927
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shadownashira/pseuds/shadownashira
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>It was fortunate that Sherlock was facing away from the door and already crouched over the body when John walked into the study. Fortunate, because then his flatmate didn't witness how he stiffened in shock as he caught his first look at the victim. Or rather, the blackened wing imprints spreading out from the man's back, ashy marks on the white shirt and beige carpeting standing out starkly.</i>
</p><p>John Watson is now a consulting detective's assistant and blogger in London, but the supernatural will always find him, and that may be exactly what Castiel needs when the angel starts on the path of no return.</p><p>(more tags to be added as fic is updated)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Brief recap: John is Gabriel's true vessel, and the two of them joined Team Free Will to stop the Apocalypse. The Sherlock and SPN universes (up to the beginning of S6) follow canon, except that the Harvelles are alive and John is now even more of a secret badass than Sherlock knows. I hope the time jump isn't too confusing.

"The cleaning service discovered the body about three hours ago," Lestrade informed them as they approached where he was standing just inside the front door of the townhouse. 

Sherlock gave no indication that he had heard or seen the Detective Inspector, heading directly for the staircase inside leading to the upper floors. The few officers loitering at the base of the stairs scrambled out of the way as the consulting detective swept towards them, coat flaring dramatically. John exchanged friendly nods with Lestrade but put aside social pleasantries for now as they both jogged along at Sherlock’s heels. 

“Thomas Ellington, aged thirty-four, lives alone. Didn’t show up for work yesterday and didn’t respond to any phone calls or texts from his workmates,” Lestrade continued as they ascended the stairs. “He employs a daily cleaning service, and the crew found everything normal when they arrived at nine this morning, door locked and windows closed. Came across the body in the study half an hour later.”

Lestrade was pulled aside by a forensics officer when they reached the second floor – John noted with relief that Anderson didn’t seem to be working this case – and waved both of them on towards the hallway presumably leading to the study. His flatmate was already striding in that direction, of course, leaving him behind to catch up. 

It was fortunate that Sherlock was facing away from the door and already crouched over the body when John walked into the study. Fortunate, because then his flatmate didn't witness how he stiffened in shock as he caught his first look at the victim. Or rather, the blackened wing imprints spreading out from the man's back, ashy marks on the white shirt and beige carpeting standing out starkly.

Instinctively stretching his senses out but finding nothing supernatural in the immediate vicinity, John forced himself to breathe in and out slowly and silently, several deep inhalations and exhalations of air. His chest itched. His left hand was perfectly steady.

"Well,” he remarked, taking a step into the room and keeping his voice and stance deliberately casual, "that's certainly impressively elaborate for a murder."

"Hmm? Oh. I suppose so," Sherlock murmured, mind far away as he hovered over the dead Thomas Ellington. After several moments, the man stood to scan the study in more detail. “John, examine the body and tell me what you think.”

“Right.” Withdrawing a pair of disposable gloves from his pocket and snapping them on, he approached the corpse, determinedly ignoring the phantom ache in the middle of his chest. Instead, he forced himself to go through his usual process, checking the nose and mouth, testing the rigidity of the skin before moving onto the wound in the abdomen. 

He resisted the urge to look around for an angel blade, knowing that if one had been found it would already be in the hands of the forensics team. “Cause of death is blood loss from the injury in the abdomen. Stab wound of some kind, it looks like. Blade with a smooth edge.” 

“Estimated time of death?” Sherlock asked absently as he leapt onto an end table, squinting up towards a corner of the ceiling. 

“Well, I’m no forensic pathologist, but - ” he probed the exposed surface of the man’s wrist, “ - the bloodstains have thoroughly dried. Rigor mortis and livor mortis are both at its maximum, so sometime between sixteen to twenty-four hours ago.”

Sherlock didn’t respond this time, moving the end table to another spot to examine another corner of the ceiling. John pushed himself to his feet and removed the gloves, his gaze drawn to Ellington’s sightlessly staring eyes, mind working furiously.

_‘You poor sod, why did you say yes? What were you doing here?’_

Lestrade entered the room a few seconds later, tapping a file against his thigh. “Sherlock, what have you got for me?”

"Did your team take his mobile?" His flatmate jumped back down onto the carpet, making a quick round of the study, eyes flicking over everything, pausing to rifle through the pockets of the suit jacket hanging over the back of an armchair. 

"No, no, his mobile wasn't on him or in this room. Could be elsewhere in the house – "

"Doubtful." Sherlock ended up next to Lestrade and zeroed onto the file in his hands. "Is that the information on the victim?"

Any potential reply was cut off as Sherlock snatched the file from the other man. "Oi!”

The consulting detective spent only a handful of seconds reading the first page before his lips curled in disgust. Whipping the file closed, he shoved it back towards Lestrade who barely managed to catch it.

“Sherlock,” John called as the man strode towards the staircase again. “Where are you going?”

He vanished down the stairs without bothering to reply. 

“So,” Lestrade ventured in the silence afterwards. Both of them started ambling after Sherlock. “Not working at the surgery today?”

“I've got a shift later this afternoon, actually. Thought I had some time to spare to come look at a crime scene.” At this point he would usually ask after Lestrade, engage in some idle conversation that Sherlock considered 'pointless social banalities'. But that spot on his chest was still itching, and the ashy wing prints were fresh in his mind, dragging up memories from where he had tucked them away securely. “No murder weapon?”

The Detective Inspector shook his head. “Not that we’ve found, not in the house anyway. I've got people searching the area outside now in case it was dumped nearby.”

_‘Not bloody likely.’_

He ended up standing alone against a patch of wall in the front hallway as Lestrade prodded the people on-scene to search the upper floors, moving them out of Sherlock’s way. Said man was sweeping to and fro between the kitchen and living room, muttering to himself.

A part of him wanted to just ignore that he had ever seen the dead angel upstairs, but the fact that there was a _dead angel_ was frankly alarming in and of itself.

It was all supposed to be over, the fighting was supposed to have ended. They had successfully stopped the Apocalypse, paid the price of Sam and Adam being locked away deep in Hell with Lucifer and Michael, Earth still standing. The angels had returned to Heaven and were supposed to be busy regrouping after the chaos that had shattered the Big Plan into tiny pieces and lost them a number of their brethren. They were supposed to be finding a new purpose under Castiel's guidance. What was going on?

Danger lay in Sherlock investigating further, but he had no hope of stopping his friend if he wanted to pursue the case. Neither could he tell Sherlock the truth of angels and demons and an Apocalypse. Of two brothers and an impossible rebellion. Couldn’t tell him that he could picture perfectly how the man upstairs had died; an angel blade, most likely wielded by another angel, driving straight into the abdomen and destroying the angelic grace contained within a fragile human vessel, iridescent wings burning out and withering to ashes. After all, that was exactly how Gabriel had died in John's body, killed by his own brother.

Mixing his scientific-minded flatmate and the supernatural would be a nightmare. How would he explain that sometimes there wasn't any data or evidence to be collected, that some things had to be taken on faith alone? How would he explain the experience of being an archangel's true vessel, of gods and death and resurrection?

"Are you done?" Lestrade reappeared to address Sherlock, watching the other man expectantly. "I need something, Sherlock. There’re no signs of forced entry and neighbours didn’t see or hear anything unusual. No signs of a fight inside the house, either." 

The consulting detective finally came to a stop, snapping his fingers at them.

"Yes, yes, that’s something that could be interesting. The stab wound to the victim's abdomen caused him to bleed to death, but that would have taken several minutes at the very least. Someone in that state would still have been conscious enough to try to call for help, or the very least staggered around the room and caused much more of a mess. Yet he didn’t. For some reason, after the stabbing the man collapsed straight away and remained in the same position until he finally died from blood loss. He didn’t have any other visible injuries, so it could possibly be some kind of incapacitating toxin, one that doesn't leave any physical marker since neither John nor I noticed anything of the sort. His blood work will need to be examined." 

His flatmate tucked his hands into his coat pockets and made for the exit.

Lestrade's eyebrows furrowed. "Where do you think you're going?"

"Home." Sherlock stated sharply. "I'm not taking this case."

John and Lestrade exchanged baffled looks. "Sherlock!"

With a heavy put-upon sigh, the detective paused by the doorway. "Check the victim's finances as well as his employer, for all the good it'll do you. Come along, John."

So saying, Sherlock stepped out onto the pavement and ducked under the police tape. Sending Lestrade an apologetic look, John followed after his friend, cautiously hopeful.

"Are you going to tell me what that was about?" he asked as they headed away from the crime scene. "I would have thought that was interesting enough a case for you."

"There's hardly any point in taking on this case, particularly since some of the evidence has been tampered with."

"Tampered with? By who?"

Sherlock’s face twisted in deep annoyance. "My brother."

"Mycroft," John said blankly. As if this wasn't complicated enough already. "Right. Just...how? Why?"

"You tell me. What did you observe, John?"

A dead angel. Taking a deep breath, he forcibly shoved aside that thought and concentrated on the crime scene. Fancy house with large paintings, delicate china vases, rich carpeting. Something about the victim's clothes or physical appearance could have been a clue, but he hadn't paid much attention to those. About to concede defeat, he recalled Sherlock mentioning the man's finances and employer.

"You read the man's file, what was his job?"

The tiniest hint of approval in Sherlock's voice indicated that he was on the right track. "Administrative assistant in the Department of Health."

"This is central London, and that was a fairly large house. All the paintings, vases and such looked pretty expensive, too. Unless he comes from old money, someone working admin couldn't afford all that," he mused out loud. A job in the public sector, put together with Mycroft and… "He works for Mycroft?"

"Very good, John. I gave you far too obvious clues, of course, but well done nonetheless. From the quality of his clothes, exorbitantly decorated house and surveillance cameras, I would have concluded that he held a high-ranking position in the government, and yet on paper he's a mere administrative assistant, just like Mycroft claims to hold a _minor_ position." Sherlock scoffed.

"Wait, surveillance cameras?" Sherlock's behaviour in the study began to make sense. "That's why you were looking at the ceiling."

" _Recently removed_ surveillance cameras," the detective added. "Ellington failed to turn up for work yesterday, and for a man in that position, not keeping to a schedule can raise red flags immediately. His body was discovered yesterday and afterwards a team cleared the house of anything of significance, such as the cameras and his mobile. I wouldn't be surprised if the cleaning service crew which called the police are Mycroft's, too."

Sometimes he just wanted to strangle both Holmeses. "So your brother wants you to investigate this, but couldn't just outright ask you to. Not that you would do it if he asked, but he must have known you would figure out he was behind this."

"He thinks there's a higher chance I'll take the case if it's given to me through the Yard instead of approaching me directly. Well, then, he's _wrong_ , isn't he?" Sherlock said with that childish glee in his voice that always resulted from getting one up on Mycroft. 

This was insane. After nearly a year of peace and quiet – on the supernatural front, anyway – a dead angel had surfaced in front of him, with Sherlock and Mycroft Holmes involved nonetheless. John may have dodged a bullet on the latter, since his flatmate was almost allergic to anything related to his brother, and the fact that Mycroft had tried to manoeuvre Sherlock into investigating meant that Thomas Ellington's death wasn't quite important enough to warrant the full attention of the British Government.

"Aren't you going in?" Sherlock asked suddenly. "We're out of milk, by the way."

Blinking, John realised they hadn't been walking around as randomly as he had assumed, but had ended up outside the surgery he worked at. He was mildly touched that Sherlock even remembered he had a shift that day, let alone walk with him all the way there. Then the second sentence registered, and he shouted after Sherlock, who continued to stride down the street, "I just bought milk yesterday!"

The consulting detective raised a hand blithely and turned a corner, disappearing from view.

Still highly tuned into his surroundings from the scare earlier, the faint tickling sensation in the back of his head had him tensing and reaching for a weapon, but the scratching noise from his right gave him pause. A large black raven that hadn't been there before perched on the railing nearby, gazing at him expectantly with intelligent beady eyes. He huffed out a resigned breath, relaxing.

"If you have anything to do with this, we'll be having words," John told the raven. It merely opened its beak in silent laughter, fluttering glossy wings at him. He sighed and checked his phone. There was still a little time before his shift started.

He crossed the road to the café opposite to buy a sandwich and a cup of tea. Everyone else was oblivious to the raven perched on his shoulder as he fed it pieces of his sandwich.

************

In-between patients, he logged into an email account that he was careful never to check on his own laptop back at Baker Street, wary of the flatmate who regularly 'borrowed' his things.

There was a mass email sent by Bobby, detailing several new protection sigils he had translated, to be used against various creatures ranging from brownies to undines. He skimmed through it, briefly entertaining the idea of asking how to go about repelling tricksters, but didn't give the thought any real consideration. After all, he partially owed his life to two tricksters, and Gabriel had spent thousands of years impersonating one. Warding against them felt too much like dishonouring the archangel's memory, no matter how silly the notion was. Instead, he clicked on an unread email from two days ago.

_RE: Salt's getting more expensive_  
 _From: drawingpictureseverywhere@gmail.com_  
 _To: gunsandswords2010@gmail.com_

_John,_

_I'm not kidding. Sam is really back, and we tested him and everything. They went back to hunting again. They dropped by last week, and I overheard Dean telling Mom about Sam acting strange. I'm worried too. For Sam, it's like nothing happened, like he wasn't stuck down there for ages. No one's handed a get out of jail free card just like that, no consequences. The last time this happened, Dean was busted out by Cas, and then we got hell on Earth afterwards._

_The worst thing is that when we told Sam that you were alive, he didn't react at all. Just said 'oh, that's good' and nothing else. WTF?_

_Speaking of Cas, Dean texted us a couple of days ago to say that they met him. Apparently they called him for a case and he showed up, just like that. I've got a bad feeling. One year of silence, then suddenly we get both of them back?_

_Loved reading the Geek Interpreter case, sounded like lots of fun. Mom says to call sometime._

_Stay safe,  
Jo_

He ran a hand over his face, thinking. If Sam was really as put-together as Jo described, why hadn't he tried to contact John, or at least ask how he had come back from the dead? By the time Castiel had resurrected him – courtesy of Raven and Hermes, tricksters repaying favours to Gabriel by holding John's soul in limbo – everything was over. The last Sam knew, John had been dead, and he liked to think that he warranted more than a dismissive one-liner from the younger Winchester. Even Dean had touched base with him a few weeks ago, dropping him a curt email about being 'back in the game'.

After those few months as a hunter, coincidences were something he didn't believe in. Sam somehow free of the Cage, Castiel's reappearance and the dead angel were one coincidence too many as his instincts were insisting.

He could hardly do anything about the Winchesters right now, not when they were across the pond. The dead angel case, however, he might be able to influence. Even without Sherlock investigating it, there was Mycroft to worry about. How probable was it for Mycroft's people to stumble onto the supernatural and not dismiss it outright as nonsensical, or was the British Government already aware of it? John thought that the latter was unlikely, considering that he had never sensed anything out of the ordinary around Mycroft or his offices.

_RE: Salt's getting more expensive_  
 _From: gunsandswords2010@gmail.com_  
 _To: drawingpictureseverywhere@gmail.com_

_Jo,_

_I'm ecstatic that Sam is back, but that's very, very suspicious. You're right to be worried. If there's anything I can do, let me know._

_Something is definitely going on. Our latest case falls on your side of things. Victim had wing prints spread out from his back and all. I'm hoping the civilians won't stumble over anything they shouldn't. I'm going to try calling for Cas, so wish me luck._

_Let's set up a time to Skype._

_John_

Everyone had respected Dean's decision to retire after the end of the Apocalypse, but the Harvelles had invited John to stay with them and learn to become a proper hunter. He had been sorely tempted – what future did a surgeon with a hand tremor have in the civilian world? – but in a fit of guilt over having put Harry aside for so long, he had asked Castiel to return him to his London bedsit instead. He had stayed in contact with Bobby, Ellen and Jo, but that had been the last time any of them had seen their angelic friend.

Well, no time like the present.

"Castiel, mate, when you have a minute, can you pop down to have a chat? We could have a cuppa together." He hesitated, feeling foolish, then added, "I live at 221B Baker Street, London. Try to act like a normal human being."

Nothing happened, but then he hadn't expected anything. Sighing, he rang for the next patient.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this fic, I start setting things up for a SPN S6 fix-it. I feel I should warn you that this story and the next one in the series (post-Reichenbach) deals heavily with how John's presence alters Castiel's choices during S6, then stretches into the events of S7, all from John's POV.
> 
> I'm hoping to update before Christmas. Expect a dose of John and Castiel's friendship, as well as Sherlock's deductions being absolutely right but wrong at the same time. All feedback appreciated!


	2. Chapter 2

John woke the next day with vague impressions of thrumming wing beats resonating in the air, a hollow space inside him missing the luminosity of angelic grace. Breathing deeply as he stared up at the ceiling, he willed away the biting sensation of loss. He had been Gabriel's vessel for only a few short months, but it was impossible to forget the inimitable experience of sharing space with an archangel, of _being_ something hundreds of thousands years old. 

Far beyond that, Gabriel had been a friend. It had been unsettling during the possession itself, but now he occasionally missed the closeness of having someone else in his head, of having someone who perfectly understood him. In some ways, Sherlock actually reminded him of the archangel, what with knowing almost exactly what John was thinking just from observation alone. 

In the middle of his chest was a smooth oval scar left behind by an archangel blade piercing through him. He pressed his palm against the phantom pain lingering there, and several minutes later when the ache finally diminished, sighed and eased out from under the covers. The moment he swung his feet around, his right thigh complained. 

It was going to be one of those days.

Downstairs, Sherlock called out to him as he entered the kitchen, "Tea for me."

He rolled his eyes but went about filling the kettle. He briefly contemplated toast, but his appetite was non-existent that morning, so he only brought out two cups of tea to the living room. Perched on his armchair in his dressing gown, Sherlock's head tilted minutely at his approach. His limp had been noticed, but no other acknowledgement of it was made. 

Sherlock thought the limp was a psychosomatic remnant from the war in Afghanistan, and John had never felt the need to disabuse him of that notion. It _was_ psychosomatic; it had never been a problem after the injury dealt to Gabriel had healed, but for some reason surfaced after the archangel had been killed and John woke up alone in his own head. His therapist could probably make a case for it being related to Gabriel's death, but considering that insanity would be a much more likely diagnosis, he was content to let everyone draw their own faulty conclusions.

_Beep_.

Sherlock sipped from his cup, radiating smugness. "Ignore it."

"I can check my texts if I want to, you prat." He limped over to the desk to pick up his phone. "It's your brother."

"Obviously," his flatmate drawled. "He's been texting me all morning, it's only logical that you're next."

_He's being childish. It's a perfectly interesting case.  
MH_

Sherlock simply wriggled his toes against the cushion when he read the text out loud. "What did I tell you? Horribly persistent."

"You're really not taking the case? Locked room murder, the wings –"

"There are at least four ways I can think of to enter and leave Ellington's house without leaving any traces," Sherlock interrupted. "The patterns of the wings were very intricately done, of course, but you seem to have figured that part out yourself."

He would have panicked if Sherlock hadn't waved a hand lazily to indicate John's laptop lying on the floor next to the detective's chair, which wasn't where he had left it when he had gone to sleep. 

Huffing a sigh of annoyance, he awkwardly stooped to retrieve his laptop and return it to the desk where he had been using it last night. "Some kind of cult?" 

Some research online had turned up a fair number of deaths classified as murders, corpses with elaborate designs of wings surrounding them. Several of the deaths were linked to the Winchesters, and the more coherent theories associated these killings with the brothers' well-documented 'delusion' about the existence of the supernatural. Other wilder theories ranged from satanic sacrificial rituals to signs of the Apocalypse. Those people would never know how close they were to the truth.

"If we were in the States, I would have considered the Winchesters, but they've never committed a crime outside North America." He was very glad he was facing away from Sherlock as the detective continued musing aloud. "No signs of religious symbols, so a cult is improbable. Serial killer? Possible, but it's just as likely that the ostentatious style of the murder was a distraction from the victim's significance, and it could all end up being some boring plot to steal sensitive classified information. With Mycroft's meddling, some of the most important evidence is gone. He shouldn't have interfered if he wanted me to take the case."

"And if the killer strikes again?" he asked, casually sipping his tea. He needed to be sure.

"I'll take the case if another body turns up. In the meantime, my brother can solve it if he wants to, but he'll have to do the _legwork_." Pleased satisfaction curled through Sherlock's voice. He could be such a _child_ sometimes, but considering that it had worked out in his favour this time, he couldn't complain.

************

Later that afternoon, an indistinct prickling sensation at the edge of his senses distracted him from the medical journal he was reading. Straightening, he waited. London had its own fair share of supernatural creatures, most trying to lead normal lives, and it wasn't uncommon for one to simply pass by peacefully. He was just glad that Sherlock wasn't there – "Kidneys, John!" – to observe the way he stared straight ahead at the wall, not really seeing it at all.

It was difficult to put in words exactly how he could tell apart individuals who pinged on his radar, but when the prickling bloomed into a sort of gentle radiance in his mind's eye, he knew instantly what was approaching. 

Angel.

Habit and paranoia had him detouring briefly to the kitchen for a knife. He was already halfway down the stairs when someone knocked on the front door, three very precisely-spaced knocks. "I'll get it, Mrs Hudson!"

He took a moment to position his right hand over a patch of wallpaper where he had drawn indiscernible Enochian sigils in holy oil, not strong enough to banish angels – human blood was needed for that – but would at least weaken them enough for him to cause damage. Heart hammering with anticipation, he swung the door open with the hand that gripped the knife. 

A familiar dark-haired man in a trench coat blinked at him owlishly. "Hello, John. I believe I was invited for tea."

************

"Raphael really doesn't know when to quit, does he?" His head was pounding from what Castiel had told him about the civil war in Heaven. Too many lives had been thrown away to stop the Apocalypse, and now the arsehole wanted to start it all over again? Bloody hell.

"He is very stubborn," Castiel agreed, gazing curiously around the kitchen from where he stood in the doorway. It still felt surreal to have him here in the flat, speaking in the oddly formal way John didn't know he had missed until now. The trench coat was definitely a sight for sore eyes. 

They sat across from each other at the desk, steaming hot cups of tea in front of them, one cup with only milk and the other with just a tad of sugar.

"This shouldn't be something to worry about, should it? I mean, Raphael's leading his own group of angels, but most of Heaven's forces still support you." It was a bit of a sweeping statement, but Gabriel's opinions on his brethren had stuck. Angels were like sheep, happy to go where they were led. Castiel's resurrection rang of God's work and the angels would gather around the only one of their kind to have been blessed by their long-absent Father. 

Castiel reached out to touch his fingertips lightly against a beaker of bluish liquid Sherlock had left sitting out. John bit back the urge to ask him what the substance was. He probably didn't want to know. "Not as many as you would think. Some are afraid, while others question my leadership and ask why they should follow a seraph instead of an archangel."

"Afraid?" he echoed the word with disbelief. It was only because he was watching so closely that he saw the swift flicker of the angel's eyes before his expression closed off.

"The Apocalypse did not pass as long foretold," Castiel said quietly, a strange heavy weight settling around him. "I rebelled and was rewarded for it. Angels have killed our own kin. The Archangel Raphael has denounced me publicly. For the first time since creation, the angels realise that free will is not merely an illusion, that we can do as we choose. It is a terrifying concept, and some find comfort in Raphael's claim that the Apocalypse is meant to be and can still occur."

Angels were built to follow orders, orders from God or the archangels. It was all they ever knew and all they ever did. Freedom was inconceivable, or at the very least, a challenging notion to impart. He tried to imagine angels acting of their own accord and failed. As far as he knew, Gabriel and Castiel had been the rare and only exceptions to the rule.

"Drink your tea," he ordered absently, and the nostalgia from those words washed over him in a wave. How many times had he and the others had to remind the angel in their midst to eat and drink? 

Castiel regarded the tea placed in front of him like he had forgotten it was there, then raised it to his lips. A complicated series of emotions broke over his features as he swallowed his first mouthful, hands tightening into a white-knuckled grip around the cup.

John frowned, a heavy stone of worry settling in his gut. "Do you want more sugar? Milk?"

"I –" Castiel's tense posture eased, and the odd standoffishness the angel had been maintaining ever since he stepped into the flat evaporated. "No, the tea is perfect. Prepared exactly how I used to drink it."

When Gabriel had been with him, they had been able to see subtle nuances of Castiel's fading grace and it had given them insights into the angel's state of mind that human vision would never be able to. John had lost most of that capability – not all, as evidenced by the fact that Castiel still hovered in his mind's eye as a faint glow – but those few months in the States hadn't been very different from his time in Afghanistan, and Team Free Will similar to his Army mates. Living and fighting together daily in a war zone bonded people very closely to one another.

John, Bobby, the Winchesters and the Harvelles were probably the only humans who actually _knew_ Castiel, had been with him as his grace abandoned him, taught him the complexities of being human. Gabriel, especially, had grown incredibly protective of Castiel very quickly even as the archangel spent half his time flitting about teasing his little brother and the others.

He knew Castiel, and that was why he was sure that his friend was hiding something important.

"What about the dead angel on Rawstorne Street, then?" he asked mildly.

Castiel's head tilted in an achingly familiar motion, and John had to smother a grin. Jo had once aptly compared the angel to a lost beagle. "That was Balthazar's work. We tracked one of Raphael's angels to London recently to retrieve one of Heaven's weapons."

"They stole from the armouries?"

"Balthazar stole some of the weapons and fled Heaven centuries ago, and the rest were taken by Raphael. Balthazar has pledged to stand by me, but it is imperative to retrieve the others in order to have a fighting chance against Raphael's forces." That dark, tangible weight returned to Castiel's shoulders. "Has this caused problems for you?"

He shrugged. "Not yet. Even if the public didn't know what they were looking at, the body count during the Apocalypse was pretty obvious. Dean and Sam have been implicated, and that actually works out pretty well for the hunters since all the weird stuff is blamed on them anyway." 

Castiel nodded gravely. "Even so, I will pass down instructions for more discretion to be utilised in future."

The angel had definitely picked up human behaviour from his stint on Earth, because right then he was practically projecting distress. It wasn't obvious, but months of observing Sherlock's methods had taught him to pay close attention to a person's body language. Castiel's shoulders were wound tight, jaw clenched and lines of tension around his eyes. If he could still see them, John imagined that the angel's wings would be folded rigidly against his back.

Apprehension coiled through him, premonition cautioning him that something was very, very wrong with the angel currently occupying his flat. 

"I'm glad to see that you are doing well here." Castiel broke the silence first. "I worried for you after you were brought back. For many weeks at the beginning you seemed…lost."

John met solemn blue eyes. 

"I was," he said quietly. God, but he had spent such a long time in some kind of war. First in Afghanistan, where his days had been filled with one blood-soaked body after another, desperately trying to save lives. Then the injury and his determination to survive, even if it meant consenting to be possessed by an archangel. After that came the Apocalypse, going against the whole of Heaven and Hell. Lastly, of course, came dying. Stabbed through the chest by Satan himself and feeling Gabriel burn into nothingness.

Compared to all that, being revived and returning to London as a civilian was like stepping into an entirely different world, monotonous and tedious. Several weeks and arguments with his drunk sister later, the limp had made a reappearance and his hands felt painfully empty without a purpose. He had been a hair's breadth away from purchasing a one-way air ticket to the States when Mike Stamford had called out his name in that park.

He froze as something occurred to him. 

"You've been watching me?" 

Castiel shifted in his seat uneasily, and John glimpsed guilt in his eyes before the angel glanced away, something terribly vulnerable in his features.

"Cas," he said gently, the angel flinching almost imperceptibly at the nickname, "what's going on?"

With ancient, tired eyes but seeming very young and lost at the same time, Castiel stared at him and opened his mouth to speak.

That was, of course, the moment when the front door downstairs swung open and shut, footsteps ascending the stairs at a distinctive swift pace.

By the time Sherlock swept into the room, Castiel had regained that untouchable aura, bland expression firmly in place. John mentally cursed his flatmate's horrendous timing.

"There are matters of import I need to attend to," Castiel intoned. "Thank you for the tea, John."

He stood and strode towards the still-open door, brushing past Sherlock. John thought about saying something to the detective, but in the end hurried down the stairs with Sherlock's keen eyes following him. "Cas!"

The angel let him catch up at the foot of the stairs, regarding him with a steady blue-eyed gaze. At a loss of what to say, knowing that something was _wrong wrong wrong_ but unable to articulate why, he hauled the man close for a brief but heartfelt embrace. 

Castiel remained stiff and unyielding in his arms for a few surprised moments, then reached up to pat his back awkwardly. That, more than anything else, made John grin as he drew back. 

Keeping hold of a fistful of trench coat, he spoke in a low tone so that his voice wouldn't carry. "I don't know what's going on with you, but just remember we – Bobby, Ellen, Jo, Dean, Sam – are your friends and we'll do anything to help you. You only have to ask."

Castiel gave him a long searching look before dipping his head in acquiescence. "Stay safe, John."

************

"Tedious."

John rubbed a hand over the back of his neck, too weary and worried over Castiel to fret about what Sherlock might have deduced. "What is?"

Sherlock was unpacking the bulky ice box he had come home with, transferring globs of crimson flesh into plastic baggies. It was a sign of how used John had become to his flatmate's tendency to experiment with all kinds of body parts that the sight no longer fazed him. "Your friend's marital problems." 

His eyebrows furrowed in bewilderment as his brain skipped tracks from pondering what Castiel was hiding to…Castiel's non-existent marital problems? His flatmate seemed to take his silence as encouragement to rattle on.

"A very stark missing tan mark around his ring finger, signs of stress obvious on his face, indicating a fresh marriage breakdown. He's not exactly making very rational decisions right now, seeing as he just got off work – some kind of sales occupation, judging from the suit and wear on his shoes – and came here straightaway. You clearly weren't expecting any guests this morning, so it was very inconsiderate of him, but then, we shouldn't expect much out of an American." 

He wandered over slowly to his chair to settle in, distracted by Sherlock's line of thought. "You dragged me out of bed last week at four in the morning for a case, so you're not really in a position to throw stones here, Sherlock."

The detective made a dismissive noise as he spun towards the fridge, shoving the baggies in as he continued to speak over his shoulder. "You invited him here instead of going out to meet him, which you would never do with casual acquaintances because despite your friendly nature you do still treasure your privacy. You refer to him as 'Cas', a shortened form of his name that you use with familiarity. The abbreviation of a name indicates a strong relationship with that individual. So not just a friend, a close friend."

John didn't think there would come a day when he wouldn't be amazed by Sherlock, because taking into account the lack of supernatural knowledge, the gist of his deductions were right. "Cas is a good mate of mine –"

"From Afghanistan, yes, I hardly need to be told." 

Fortunately searching for something in the fridge, his flatmate missed the total look of incomprehension that John could feel cross his face. It was a relief not to have to lie to Sherlock because there was a very low chance of that occurring successfully, but it also meant that in order not to give anything away, he had to act like whatever Sherlock inferred from Castiel was accurate. "Let's hear it, then, you smug bastard. How did you know that?"

Sherlock breezed back out into the living room carrying the bag of thumbs that had been sitting in the fridge for the past week, pausing to gesture emphatically with it. "He was a soldier, his posture and body language says that much. Too young to retire, so he was probably invalided out or chose to leave the military. You were stationed at Camp Bastion, while the Americans were right next to you at Camp Leatherneck, so it's a fair guess to say that's where the two of you met. Besides, your limp is gone."

He darted a startled look at his own leg. He hadn't consciously realised it, but his limp had vanished sometime after Castiel's arrival.

"Your limp reappeared this morning due to a nightmare of the war, and ironically enough it disappeared when your friend's presence reminded you of it."

He made a neutral considering noise, but the other man seemed to have lost all interest in the one-sided conversation, swanning back off towards his room. 

"You better not be doing anything hazardous with those thumbs!" he called after him. The only response was Sherlock's bedroom door slamming shut.

Angels tended to retain their vessels' physical appearance and clothes, but he hadn't realised it was so _exact_. The sales job, missing wedding ring; those were Jimmy Novak's clothes and appearance, while the body language was all Castiel. The war Sherlock referenced was, of course, not the one in Afghanistan but rather the secret one in the States.

He shook his head fondly. So very wrong yet so very right, Sherlock.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many apologies for the late update. Happy new year, everyone! I'm working on the next chapter (expect Crowley and Balthazar) and hope to post it ASAP. Meanwhile, there's Sherlock S3 to enjoy.
> 
> (Also, because I wanted to get this out before the new year, I'll be making minor edits to this chapter over the next few days. It'll be mostly sentence structure and the like, nothing huge.)


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